


the fall of man

by singlemalter



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Bahrain Grand Prix 2019, Blow Jobs, M/M, Power Imbalance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2019-12-30 19:00:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18321314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singlemalter/pseuds/singlemalter
Summary: Lewis Hamilton isn’t so sure whether he’s a good man.





	the fall of man

**Author's Note:**

> Encouraged by all the lovely comments on _of all bad men_. Thank you.

For once, Lewis is glad the press is too daft to see through his labyrinthine relationship with Charles. He sees the asinine tabloids claiming he’s fishing for praise and scrolls through heaps of vitriolic comments on his latest Instagram post—you’re trying too hard, Hamilton, lay off the good guy act. 

Sometimes, he wishes he could take those suggestions into account. If only his affection for Charles was a PR stunt.

The truth is he’s not quite sure where they stand; most of the time, Charles is soft-spoken and slightly milquetoast, but every once in a while, his eyes will spark with a lonesome kind of mischief, and Lewis will keep his arm around Charles’ thin waist a little longer than strictly necessary.

This is, of course, when Charles comes into his motorhome, tousled and looking exhausted down to his bloody bones, won’t you take care of me, sir, I’m new to the adult table and I can’t quite stomach my losses yet.

“You did fantastic today, mate,” Lewis tells him, because it’s the right (borderline paternal) thing to do.

Charles gives him a coy smile. “Thank you,” he says, sinking into the couch right beside Lewis. He keeps his hands to himself, but keeps fidgeting with the hem of his bright red shorts.

Lewis doesn’t look directly at him. He’s terrified of Charles in a way no grown man should be; Charles represents a risk he can’t take, a spiral downwards into a slew of moral issues Lewis would rather not bring unto himself.

This generation’s greatest, reduced to cajoling young drivers into letting him have his way with them, how very cruel of you, Mister Hamilton. 

Charles climbs into his lap and it becomes pointedly obvious to Lewis that he’s just a kid—a kid with his head on straighter than anyone else in the grid, but a kid either way. Lewis probably wouldn’t have thought the act slightly sexual had it been anyone else. “Sorry,” he murmurs.

Lewis sighs, runs a hand through Charles’ freshly-washed hair. “Listen, man, I know how it feels, and it’ll get better soon, I promise—“

“Can we not talk about it,” Charles interrupts him, playing with the collar of Lewis’ team shirt. 

“I thought... I mean, this is what I can do for you, isn’t it,” Lewis says, miserably failing at making him realise how terrible this is, for both of them but _especially_ for Charles himself.

Instead of a verbal answer, Charles presses a featherlight kiss to the edge of Lewis’ lips. Charles’ shaky fingers tighten around the fabric of his shirt and Lewis really doesn’t want to want this, not from a boy in desperate need of a proper father figure. 

He doesn’t want to want it, but he does, a low burn in his veins spurring him on. Lewis kisses him firm and slow, holding back as much as possible so he doesn’t scare Charles away. 

Turns out he ought not to worry, because Charles grows increasingly fiercer, running his hands down Lewis’ chest and onto the front of his trousers, like he’s begging to be ravished. It’s a feeling Lewis is particularly familiar with after a sour race. 

He shifts a little so his half-erection is snug against Charles’ arse, and they shall surely be put to death, their blood shall be upon them; Charles is as eager here as he is on the grid, running with Lewis’ urges to make dirty men out of both of them.

Lewis takes pity on Charles’ ridiculous struggle and reaches down to unbutton his slacks himself. He doesn’t miss the delectable flush on Charles’ cheeks when he hooks his thumbs into the waistband, sliding it down to reveal the bulge in his underwear.

Charles mumbles something against the stubble dotting Lewis’ jaw. “Speak up, would you,” Lewis teases.

“Can I...” Charles says, his face impossibly crimson now. “I want to use my mouth.”

God, Lewis’ voice is going to be permanently hoarse once he’s done with this. “Of course,” he says, and gently forces Charles away until he gets the cue.

Charles is, as always, lightning quick on the uptake. He slides off Lewis’ lap and gets on his knees, bare skin on the carpet, settled between the lazy spread of Lewis’ thighs. His first moves are adorably uncertain: he cups Lewis’ dick through his boxers, then gingerly slides his fingers inside to reveal its tip.

“Are you nervous?” Lewis asks, high on the scorching rush of having Ferrari’s baby driver begging to get him off. God, he’s fucked. “Don’t be. It’s just me, yeah?” 

He tucks a sweaty curl behind Charles’ ear. It’s just me. Nothing odd about this, I swear.

When Charles finally wraps his kiss-swollen lips around Lewis’ cock, it takes everything not to fuck his mouth in earnest. Lewis grips the sofa and exhales, pushing himself to keep his eyes open because he can’t afford to miss a single second of this. 

He doesn’t dare run his mouth, of course. There are still crew members bustling around the place, wasted on Chandon and just waiting to catch a scandal starring five-time world champion Lewis Hamilton. He makes sure to _show_ Charles how good he feels, though, pushing his thumb into Charles’ mouth to watch it stretch even wider, caressing the bulge of his cock over Charles’ tear-streaked cheeks.

Charles keeps his eyes firmly shut through the entire thing, except when he pulls back to spit on his own hand. He uses it to jerk Lewis off, tighter and harsher than Lewis does it to himself, still sloppily sucking the part he can reach.

“I’m close,” Lewis warns him, and a streak of need shoots up his spine. Back home, a teacher once told him desiring forbidden things was evil. Perhaps he’d been right after all. “Wanna come all over your face, Charles, look at you.”

White-hot arousal seizes his breath. Lewis pulls out of Charles’ mouth and it doesn’t take more than a couple strokes before he comes in thick spurts over Charles’ wet cheeks, leaving him more gorgeous than Lewis had thought possible. Debauched, not a World Championship contender.

Once he’s fully ridden out his orgasm, Lewis wipes his sticky fingers on the closest towel, gets on his feet and offers Charles a hand. This was fun, now it’s time to get back to the real world, kid. 

Charles doesn’t take it.

Lewis doesn’t push him. He buttons his trousers back up, steps out of the room and storms into his first-place celebration.

**Author's Note:**

> The teacher Lewis remembers quoted St. Jean-Baptiste de la Salle: _”To abstain from sinful actions is not sufficient for the fulfillment of God's law. The very desire of what is forbidden is evil.”_
> 
> I am clearly very into Lewis being a sexy, unapologetically religious man who I can turn morally twisted for the sake of ficlets like this.


End file.
